Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LAURA
A ntoine is walking next to me, his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning the street. I’d be more nervous preparing to meet my parents if I were in his shoes. Does he realize he’s going to be judged from the moment he sets foot in their apartment and up until he steps out? Should I warn him?
“Do you know Belleville?” I ask instead.
He shakes his head. “Not well. I might’ve passed through once, years ago, but that’s about it.”
“It isn’t the prettiest quartier in Paris, I’ll give you that. But it has character. And I love it here.”
“Which aspects, in particular?”
I try to sound like a tour guide. “Belleville used to be a winemaking village. When Paris grew and ate up all the villages around it, Belleville became part of the city but never got a full makeover like the boulevards closer to the center.”
“Now I understand the mix of quaint houses, ugly modern buildings, and classic limestones.”
“Look up at that sign.” I point across the street. “Tang Gourmet. It’s a supermarket-slash-takeaway. And see above the sign?”
He tilts his head, squinting. “The yellow 1984 thing?”
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s meant to remind us that, wherever we are on the streets of Paris, we’re ‘always being watched.’”
“How reassuring,” he deadpans.
“See the bistro, Aux Folies?” I point it out. “The name’s an homage to the nightclub Folies Belleville, where Piaf used to perform.”
“I was wondering when Edith Piaf would come up.”
“Really?”
He grins. “No, sweet cheeks. I had no idea.”
The unexpected endearment, and the way his gaze caresses my face fill my stomach with something warm and fuzzy.
I point down the street. “There’ll be more of Piaf soon.”
We take a quick detour onto the funky rue Dénoyez with its overflowing sidewalk cafés and restaurants.
I gesture at the walls. “Welcome to Paris’s unofficial street art gallery! No blank surfaces allowed.”
Antoine studies the layers of colorful tags and sprawling murals.
“Interesting,” he says.
“Interesting?” I put my hands on my hips. “That’s all you got? How about bold? Imaginative? Incredible?”
He meets my gaze. “You’re right. As a tattoo artist, I do find all this graffi—I mean, street art, incredible.”
I roll my eyes and lead him back to Rue de Belleville.
A few minutes later, I point at a plaque mounted on the wall of a building. “And here we are! Number 72. This is where Edith Piaf was born, right on the steps of this house.”
“What, in the doorway?” He frowns. “That sounds… unsanitary.”
“Her dad took too long to get home and drive her mom to the hospital. Baby Edith couldn’t wait.”
“Oh, I see.”
I stop and glower at him. “I can’t believe ‘unsanitary’ is all you have to say when you’re literally staring at the literal birthplace of literally our most iconic singer!”
He grins. “I’m literally ashamed of myself.”
“You should be.”
I almost add, Stay in that lighthearted zone, OK? Maybe it will protect you from my parents’ bile.
We pass Yang Bubble Tea shop, closed for the evening.
“Best popping pearls in town,” I inform him.
“I have no doubt.”
Finally, we reach my parents’ building.
I point out the second-floor windows above us. “That’s their place.”
He nods.
As always, I wonder what’s going through his head. If he’s nervous, he hides it well.
I expel a breath. “Ready?”
“Are you?”
“Let’s find out.”
Two flights of stairs and a knock. The door swings open at once as if someone had been waiting on the other side.
I bet he was. Dad’s eyes dart past me to Antoine, and then to the TV crew behind him with their mics and cameras angling for a close-up.
I plaster on a smile. “ Bàba , remember Antoine?” And, please, don’t be as rude as at the wedding!
“How could I forget?” He sighs.
“Antoine, I’m sure you remember my dad, Zhou.”
“Monsieur Yang, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Antoine extends his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, Dad shakes the offered hand. “Please, come in.”
Inside, my mom hurries forward, wiping her hands on her apron. We greet each other with a kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks for having me, Madame Yang!” Antoine offers another handshake. “Everything smells amazing.”
“It’s spicy,” she says, ignoring his hand and his compliment. “I hope you can handle it.”
Her tone leaves no doubt that she thinks he can’t.
“Oh, I love spicy food,” Antoine assures her. “The spicier, the better.”
Her eyes narrow, like she’s testing his sincerity. “We’ll see.”
Aunt Mei arrives, and we go through another round of awkward greetings.
“Come on, dinner’s getting cold.” Dad motions everyone to the living room. “Let’s eat.”
He leads us to the dining table. We sit and I brace myself. The table is packed with Szechuan classics—mapo tofu, spicy fish fillets, and stir-fried green beans glistening with chili oil. It looks and smells delish, but I know better than to interpret it as a good sign. This meal is a trap.
“For dessert, I made chilled osmanthus jelly,” Mom says. “It’s cooling in the fridge.”
Her tone is so menacing that I wonder if she’s spiked Antoine’s portion with a laxative or something worse.
Nah, she wouldn’t do such a horrible thing, would she?
Antoine smiles politely. “That sounds amazing. I’ve heard of osmanthus before—delicate and fragrant, right?”
“Hmm,” Mom replies. “We’ll see if you like it.”
The cameraman leans in for a shot of her face.
“What do you do for work?” Dad asks Antoine, as we begin to eat.
You don’t waste time, Bàba, do you?
“I’m a tattoo artist,” Antoine replies. “I have my own parlor in the 18th arrondissement.”
If I hadn’t figured out his job during the honeymoon, I would’ve asked about it on the flight back to Paris. That’s when Antoine found out about my day job at the bank. Throughout our stay at Cala Stella, he had assumed that I was a professional costume jewelry designer.
There’s a beat of silence as my dad digests Antoine’s reply. “You mean… you draw on people.”
“Yes,” Antoine confirms. “It’s an art form.”
I almost spit out my wine. Your drawings, an art form?
“Do you make any money from your art ?” Dad presses, grimacing at “art.”
“Zhou!” Aunt Mei admonishes him. “Art isn’t a bad word.”
“Not if it pays,” Dad concedes before turning back to Antoine. “Does yours?”
“Yes,” Antoine replies.
Dad’s eyes narrow. “How much do you make?”
“Bàba!” I glare at him. “That’s rude.”
“It’s a valid question,” Mom interjects, her focus on Antoine. “You’re married now. Finances matter.”
The derisive tone with which she says “married” mirrors Dad’s handling of “art” to perfection.
Antoine hesitates. “Enough to live comfortably.”
“Comfortably for a hippie or for a family man?” Dad mutters.
Antoine chooses to treat that as a rhetorical question.
I grip my chopsticks so tightly my knuckles turn white. The camera shifts from Dad’s face to Antoine’s, then to mine, and then to Mom’s. Close-ups, no doubt. The cameraman, who isn’t Alain, is smiling with glee. The entire crew looks like they couldn’t be happier.
The meal goes on. Mom, Dad, and Aunt Mei pepper Antoine with more questions—where he’s from, why he chose this career, whether he has plans to move up in life. He replies he’s from a small place in the Dordogne region. Other than that, he mostly deflects.
Every new pique, every passive-aggressive act of hostility my parents deliver makes the TV crew’s expressions a little happier. When they thank my parents and leave, without waiting for the dessert, they practically skip down the hallway. The moment I close the door behind them, I can hear them gloat.
“That was enough drama to fill an entire episode!”
“The Yangs didn’t disappoint.”
“When we air, fans will start calling in to check if Antoine made it home alive.”
They laugh.
I clench my fists.
Not funny. Not funny at all!